


Hard headed

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Concussions, Doc Oc mention, Gen, Mission Fic, Peter Parker and the terrible horrible no good very bad day, Sickfic, Vomiting, see I can be hip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Peter sustains a concussion during a mission.  Tony helps him deal (while also worrying a lot).





	Hard headed

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from tumblr. Find me @Builder051

Mr. Stark’s voice is loud in Peter’s ear.  Peter wants to tell him to shut up, but he can’t hear the individual words.  Better stick it out.  The message might be important. 

 

“…ok?  Hey, kid, come on.”  He feels his mask parting company with his face.

 

“Not a kid,” Peter tries to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a groan.  The vibrations from his vocal cords rise through his jaw and his face, bringing on a wave of dizziness that’s baffling because Peter’s pretty sure he’s lying down.

 

“Alright, that’s something,” Mr. Stark says.  “How ‘bout opening your eyes.”

 

Peter does, but it’s not much of an improvement.  Everything’s terribly blurred, and the light pouring in from all angles feels like acid washing over his eyeballs.  He blinks a couple times and decides he prefers his lids lightly closed.

 

“Ok.  You’re conscious,” Mr. Stark declares, relief obviously flooding his tone.  “Let’s sit you on up…”  Hands slide under Peter’s shoulders and yank him upright.  Well, at least that’s how it feels as he moves through space, vertigo smashing from all sides.  Peter keeps his chin down to his chest, but it still feels like his head is spinning on his neck.

 

“Look at me,” Mr. Stark instructs. 

 

Raising his chin and tipping his gaze upward takes more effort than it should.  The motion brings on crashing nausea, and Peter clenches his teeth together.  Some kind of invisible fishing line seems to be connecting his lips with his eyelashes, and Peter screws his eyes shut again as well.

 

“Oh, geez.  You’re kind of missing the point here, kid,” Mr. Stark says.  “Look at me.  With your eyes.”

 

Oh.  He can do that.  Peter scrapes his eyelids up to reveal very blurry Mr. Stark leaning in close.  Peter’s mouth inexplicably gapes once more, and he settles for a disorganized prayer that his body won’t take it as an invitation to spew rising stomach contents all over the place.

 

“Yeah, ok,” Mr. Stark mutters.  “Your pupils are pretty blown.  I’m guessing you can’t see that well?”

 

“Hm,” Peter exhales.  He does his best attempt at a nod without moving his head.

 

“Shit,” Mr. Stark hisses.  “Worst-case scenario.  I should have a protocol for this…”

 

“I’m ok.”  Peter’s not really sure why he grinds it out, except that it feels natural. 

 

“I’d totally believe you,” Mr. Stark starts.  “If I didn’t just watch you get thrown into a wall.  I’m not trusting that you can sit up by yourself right now.”

 

The metal ironman gloves are still clamped around Peter’s shoulders.  Funny.  He can barely feel them gripping his body.  Maybe his arms are going numb.  Or maybe it’s that anything outside the cacophonous throbbing of his head just registers so much lower on the scale of sensation that it doesn’t seem to matter.

 

Peter would really like to go home.  Lie down.  The brightness that keeps rudely inserting itself and making his eyes water tells him it’s daytime, but the drowsiness pulling at Peter’s consciousness is more like the feeling of staying up till 3 in the morning to play video games against his (and May’s) better judgment. 

 

“Not sure I was supposed to follow that,” Mr. Stark says, moving his hand to behind Peter’s back.

 

Oops.  Was he talking out loud?  Peter doesn’t think he was, but it seems like he’s been wrong a lot lately.  Like thinking he could use webs to tie up that scientist’s mechanical limbs on his own…that was a pretty crappy choice. 

 

Speaking of that… “Where’s the…the thing?”  Great specificity, Pete.

 

“The thing?” Mr. Stark repeats.  “Not a comic book I read.”

 

“No, the…the doc…”

 

“Oh, our friend Mr. Octavius?  The one who just gave you a head injury?”  He looks at Peter with a mixture of incredulity and pity.  “Not a priority right now.”

 

“Why?”  He was doing terrible things, right?  And that’s why he and Mr. Stark were fighting him, right?

 

“I’ll hunt him down in 48 to 72 hours when I’m sure you aren’t dying of a brain bleed,” Mr. Stark says.  Then, “Come on.  Think you can stand up?  If I help you?”

 

Peter’d like to say no, but he doesn’t get a chance to reply.  Mr. Stark grips Peter’s elbows and maneuvers him to his feet.  Peter feels the sway externally and internally.  “Whoa, ok.” Mr. Stark tucks his metal-clad arm around Peter’s shoulders to hold him steady.  It does nothing to stay Peter’s sloshing stomach though. 

 

“Off to the car,” Mr. Stark says. 

 

Ok.  That must mean they’re going home.  Peter thinks longingly of his lumpy twin mattress, the endearingly temperamental showerhead… But he’s going to have to stop off at the toilet before he can shower or sleep, though.  The sweat on his upper lip is beading up as his stomach clenches ominously.

 

Mr. Stark’s talking to him again.  “…chill upstate with me for a while.  May is going to kill me if she sees what happened to you…”

 

The words don’t sink in.  The mucousy gunk clogging Peter’s throat must be blocking up his ears as well.  He’s on the verge of asking Mr. Stark to clarify, but words aren’t what rises when he opens his mouth.  The first trickle of vomit is small and unexpected, but then Peter’s knees buckle as the second wave forces itself out, almost projectile, spraying partially digested food and acid over the ground and the front of his suit.

 

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Mr. Stark mutters, holding Peter around the waist at arm’s length.  The third retch produces less, and the fourth is practically dry. 

 

“Alright,” Mr. Stark says when Peter’s coughing and smearing puke over his face with his shaky gloved hand.  “Worst-case scenario confirmed.  You’re concussed as hell.”

 

Peter’s still too nauseous to think, so he just vaguely nods, which makes him dry heave again. 

 

“Calm down and breathe.”  Mr. Stark slaps him on the back a couple times.  “There’s Happy with the car.  Right there.  Hopefully he has trash bags.”

 

The interior of the car is mercifully dimmer than the bright sunlight outside, but the hunching over and stepping up necessary to slide into the back of the SUV is sickening all over again.  A rumpled plastic shopping bag materializes in Peter’s lap.  He means to say thanks, but he gives a gross hiccup instead.

 

The drive is painful.  Peter feels fairly carsick even before the vehicle starts moving, and he’s throwing up again within minutes.  After his body evacuates a couple tablespoons of yellow bile, Peter lets his bowling ball of a head fall backward and bounce off the headrest.  Which hurts.  He shuts his eyes.

 

“Hey, hey, no sleeping,” Mr. Stark chides, poking Peter in the shoulder.  “Not yet.”

 

“Tired,” Peter groans.  And maybe he’ll feel less like dry heaving if he’s asleep.

 

“Yeah, but if your brain decides it likes a permanent state of unconsciousness, I’ll be on the line for child abuse resulting in death, so I’d rather you didn’t do that right now.”  Mr. Stark sighs.  “That…came out harsher than I meant.  Just…please don’t die.”

 

Peter doesn’t know how much time’s passed when Mr. Stark supports him out of the car and into the Avengers facility’s spacious entryway.  The plastic bag he’d been puking into is gone, and Peter’s starting to feel like he needs it again.

 

“Mr.…” Peter manages to whisper.  He gags, meaning to cover his mouth with his balled fist, but missing a little.  Spit hits the hard floor with an amplified sound, and Peter fights the invasive dizziness that threatens to send him down too. 

 

“Ok, geez,” Mr. Stark murmurs.  “I would give you an MRI, but I don’t think you’re ready to lay on your back right now.  How about a change of clothes and a trash can?”

 

In his current state, it sounds like the best proposition Peter’s ever heard.


End file.
